


the escape into weakness and hope

by palmviolet



Category: The Plot Against America (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Anti-Semitism, Gen, Post-Canon, the road to redemption is long and not easy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24059950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palmviolet/pseuds/palmviolet
Summary: bess misses her sister, although she shouldn't. evelyn struggles to make amends.
Relationships: Bess Levin & Evelyn Finkel, Bess Levin/Herman Levin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	the escape into weakness and hope

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so i wrote it, and no one except like 10 winona stans on twitter will read it, but this is for them <3 it's long and depressing but it has a happy ending? i think?
> 
> title is from the poem referenced in the epigraph.

I believe with perfect faith that at this very moment

millions of human beings are standing at crossroads

and intersections, in jungles and deserts,

showing each other where to turn, what the right way is,

which direction.

– yehuda amichai, trans. chana bloch & chana kronfield, _I Wasn’t One of the Six Million: And What is My Life Span? Open Closed Open_ (2000)

\--

“You look tired,” is the first thing Lionel says to her when they’ve returned him to her with nothing of an apology. He looks defeated, rumpled. There’s a bruise on his cheek. She touches it, him, warily, like maybe he’s not even real. 

“So do you,” she says, intending it to sound light but her voice is flat. “I am tired. I’m so tired.”

The next morning, when she feels the mattress dip as he gets up to go to the synagogue, she doesn’t move. She hears him go into the bathroom, his quiet murmurs of Hebrew as he completes his morning ritual. She lies there, awake, for fifteen minutes longer, thinking and thinking and not wanting to get out of bed. But then she does, and goes downstairs in her nightgown with her hair unbrushed. She brings her cigarette case with her, the pretty brass one Bess gave her for her thirtieth birthday, and lights a cigarette in the drawing room even though Lionel doesn’t like her smoking in the house.

He’s reading the newspaper in his armchair. She sits on the arm of the sofa and waits for him to look up, even though she doesn’t want him to. She really does not want to have this conversation. 

Finally, he does, though it takes him long enough. She meets his eyes with a flash of annoyance. “You’re not dressed,” he notices, with a flicker of surprise.

When did his voice start to grate on her? It makes her dig her nails into her palm, to resist the urge to claw his eyes out. Her rage is irrational, but more than that, it’s dangerous. He’s all she’s got. “No.”

She takes another drag of her cigarette and watches his eyes narrow, but he doesn’t comment. He just looks at her over his paper, unreadable, and more than ever this feels like a game. But she’s tired of playing games. 

“I’m not going with you,” she says, finally.

Now he looks affronted. He closes his paper, folds it in the middle, places it by his coffee on the table. “Are you going to tell me why?”

She uses her cigarette to give herself more time to think. Because frankly, she doesn’t really know. All she knows is she can’t face it, not again. The stares, the silence, the way people get up and leave when they notice her husband. She was never one for synagogue anyway, was she, not until she started trying to be a good Jewish daughter, a good Jewish wife. Look where that got her. 

“I just- I can’t take it anymore, Lionel. I can’t- They don’t want us there.”

“‘They don’t want us there?’ They do want us there; or they will. One day soon they’ll accept the truth and I will be lauded, praised as a hero.”

She tries not to scoff bitterly. It comes out as a sort of sigh. “I can’t wait.”

“Evelyn!” Chiding, like she’s a child misbehaving. “You’re coming with me.”

She stares at him. “Uh, no, I’m not.” She almost laughs. “What’re you gonna do, drag me there?” Her voice softens. “I’m sorry, Lionel. I’m not going with you.”

Suddenly he strikes her as the child, first petulant, now lost and alone. He frowns a little at nothing, like he can’t quite believe it. She looks at the clock on the mantelpiece and leans forward: “If you’re gonna go, you should probably go now.”

He looks at her for a moment before standing up. “Please don’t smoke in here,” he says, and then sweeps out of the room. She watches his receding back and continues to smoke her cigarette.

\--

Bess tells Herman, when everything’s over. She’s brushing her hair at her nightstand and he’s reading in bed and it all feels so _normal_ , after it all. She can almost forget that they nearly moved to Canada. She can almost forget that they’ve gained a child; that her sister and his nephew are no longer welcome in their house. 

Then he has to ruin it by opening his mouth. “Philip told me about Evelyn.”

She squeezes her eyes shut and lets her face fall into her hands. “What did he say?”

“He said-” she hears him moving, coming to stand behind her, his hand on her shoulder, “-that she wanted you to hide her. And that you called her a stupid little bitch and threw her out.”

“He said that?” She can’t imagine Philip saying the word _bitch_ in his reedy little voice. Somehow the fact that he did makes her feel worse. She swallows and doesn’t look up. “I was angry.”

“For good reason. She _is_ a stupid little bitch and she’s lucky I wasn’t here at the time- coming back here begging for help, how _dare_ she, after everything she did-”

“Herman.” She looks up, meets his furious eyes in the mirror. Her tone is warning. Even now, there’s some sense of mediation, of sibling loyalty. She’s allowed to call her sister a stupid bitch, because that’s what she is. But no one else can. “It’s over. I told her never to come back here.”

That seems to throw him off. He frowns, the harsh lines of his anger softening, and his grip on her shoulder loosens. “What?”

She turns in his arms and looks up at him. She’s not sure what she expected, but it wasn’t this. Something in his eyes is making her feel stupid and irrational and she hates that, that she’s the irrational one, because she’s _not._ Herman’s the one who goes out and gets blood on his face when she told him not to; Herman’s the one who throws his war-wounded nephew through the glass coffee table. Her jaw tightens with anger. “Are you _defending_ her?”

“No, of course not! Of course not, how can you even think that-”

He’s pulled away, doing that thing he does where she can tell that any second he’ll start pacing, and she doesn’t want him to pace, because his footsteps are heavy and he’ll wake the boys. (All three of them, now, thanks to Philip and Lindbergh and fucking Evelyn.) She nearly laughs. “Oh, no? Don’t tell me I didn’t do _just_ what you would have done. I mean, at least I didn’t throw her through a table.”

For a moment he just stares at her, and she’s not sure what she’s angry about, not really. But there’s fury in her veins and he’s her only available target, right now. Besides the fact he destroyed her favorite table.

“How is that even comparable?” And there, in his voice, there’s just a tinge of shame for losing his temper. For the audible _crash_ that had Philip sobbing into her arms all night, because it was too soon for violence, for disruption. 

“What Evelyn did was worse.” Her voice is barely a whisper. She hates to speak of it. “What she did was worse, and yet you attacked your nephew but you are _defending_ her-”

“I’m not defe-” He lowers his voice, which is almost a yell. “I am not defending her. But what I did to Alvin was _bad_ , Bess, I mean sure he’s a punk but I shouldn’t have- not in our house. Not in front of his wife.”

“So- what. Does that mean you’re gonna- you’re gonna let him come back for dinner? ‘Oh, hey, Al, nice to see you,’ like everything is exactly the same?” 

He shakes his head. He doesn’t look angry anymore, he just looks sad. Somehow that’s worse. “I didn’t say that. But- we don’t have a lot in this world. Especially not now. Turning away Alvin… your sister…”

“It is _because_ of my sister that we have less now. It is _because_ of her that you lost your job, that Seldon has to live with us, that-”

“I _quit_ my job, Bess.” His reminder is gentle, but it stings anyway. He sounds like Sandy, _why shouldn’t we go live in Kentucky?_ , and she knows he’s smarter than that but he’s not showing it, not right now. “And yes, it was her fault. She’s stupid and selfish, I’m not denying that. You really think I’m denying that? If she wasn’t your sister I’d tell her to get the hell out and be done with it, for once and for all. But she is your sister. I’m not saying invite her over for dinner, I’m not saying let her see the boys, I’m just-” He sighs. “I’m worried about you.”

She wants to argue further. She resents being worried about - he’s got enough on his plate - and this isn’t over. But equally she’s tired, and he’s taken a frustrated step in the direction of pacing and if Philip or god forbid Seldon starts crying again then they’re all doomed to a night of no sleep, so. She goes to him and lets him fold her in his arms. “I love you,” she says. “But if I see her again, I’ll kill her.”

\--

When there’s the sound of gravel crunching under tires on the driveway Evelyn pulls her robe tighter around her and goes to the window, looking out with only a slight twitch of the curtains. She’s not dressed for visitors; Lionel’s only been gone half an hour. And the car is large, sleek, dark. Someone important. Her nightgown is suddenly less pressing than her unbrushed hair and her lips lacking in lipstick, and she rushes to the mirror in the hall and tries to make herself look vaguely presentable. (A week ago, they had staff to answer the door. They didn’t quit; Lionel didn’t run out of money; Evelyn just got sick of it, of doing nothing, of watching someone else make their meals like they’re somehow better than everyone else.)

There’s a sharp rap with the door knocker, three raps: blunt, efficient. She breathes out some of the tension that’s flooded her chest - unfortunately not helped by her morning scotch - and answers it.

She has to stop and stare for a moment. “Mrs- Mrs Lindbergh!”

For the first time the ex-First Lady looks tired. “Anne, please. It’s just Anne.”

It’s then that Evelyn remembers her appearance and her cheeks burn so hot she feels feverish. Appearing in front of Anne Morrow Lindbergh- like _this_ \- “I’m so sorry,” she stammers, “I- um-” She drags an anxious hand through her hair like she isn’t tangling it further. She’s never presented herself to Mrs Lindb- _Anne_ , as anything but put-together, elegant, professional. Now her hair is messy and she’s wearing her robe.

“Oh, I don’t mind. Don’t worry, really.” Her voice is reassuringly earnest - not that it isn’t always, but now, on Evelyn’s doorstep, without the grandeur of the White House around her- “May I come in?”

“Oh- of course!” Evelyn consciously has to make her voice less strangled. “Um- I’m sorry, Lionel isn’t here at the moment, he’s-” Something, she doesn’t know what, prevents her from completing it with _at synagogue._

“I know.” Always calm, always measured, just like she was in the address that saved the country. Evelyn leads her to the drawing room and then cringes, remembering the half-empty tumbler of scotch on the table, but Anne doesn’t comment. They sit across from each other. Anne sits in Lionel’s armchair.

There’s a moment of silence. Anne studies her, so Evelyn doesn’t feel too uncomfortable in studying her in return. She looks just as pressed, as put-together, as she always used to. Pale pink lipstick, a dress in cornflower blue. But her hair, while still neat, is loose, held in place by only a few pins, and it makes her look different. Younger.

“How are you doing?” Anne says, leaning forward with her hands on her knees, her legs elegantly crossed at the ankle.

“I’m-” What does she respond? When Anne is sitting there looking like she could walk right into Congress, and Evelyn looks like an alcoholic who just tumbled out of bed? Damning the consequences, she takes a fortifying sip of scotch, and then is faced with the dual crisis of offending the ex-First Lady because she didn’t offer her a drink or offending her because she offered her a drink so early in the day. Finally, “Sorry, would you like a drink?”

She has to resist the urge to stare when Anne says “Yes, please. Thank you. A scotch, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Scotch poured out, Anne takes a hearty sip, then looks at her in expectant silence. Of course, Evelyn dodged her question. She hadn’t expected to be chased for an answer, not really. No one means it when they ask how you are. They’re just being polite. “We’re fine, thank you.”

“And how are _you?”_

After a bit of hesitation: “I’m fine. Thank you. And- and yourself?”

Anne gives her another of those searching looks. They make her skin prickle. “I’m- well, I’m doing as well as can be expected in the circumstances. It’s been- strange.”

“Oh, yes, I can imagine.” Her words send an uncertain bolt of conflict through her; she can’t imagine, not really, because Lionel is still by her side every night. She wasn’t locked in an asylum for twenty-four hours, although if she’d stuck around Bess would probably have tried it. But equally-

And strangely-

She finds herself thinking, what does Anne Morrow Lindbergh know? What does Anne Morrow Lindbergh know of suffering, when Jewish children were getting butchered in the street?

(What does Evelyn know?)

“I was thinking, perhaps, that we could have that lunch. I know it isn’t so- well, so appealing a concept, now. It won’t be at the White House. But I did mean it. I would like to see you.”

For once - perhaps the first time in her life - Evelyn feels like the one being prevailed upon, instead of the one doing the prevailing. She could say yes: maybe Anne would look grateful. Evelyn would like to see her grateful - not faux-grateful, as she was when they accepted the invitation to the von Ribbentrop dinner. ( _Why don’t you ask von Ribbentrop?!_ when she asked Bess for help. It stalks her nightmares.) Really, truly grateful. Nothing to do with Lindbergh or Lionel, not this time. Grateful because Evelyn was Evelyn, and Evelyn was going to lunch with her.

But then she feels a great wave of revulsion rising up inside her and she can’t explain it, she doesn’t have the words for it, but all she’s thinking of is _Bess_ and how this can’t happen, no matter how much she wants it to. Anne is still Anne Morrow Lindbergh, even if Lindbergh is dead. Even if he’s a hostage of Berlin, which Evelyn really wants to believe but she can’t quite get there, not anymore.

Anne is still speaking. “I was thinking perhaps next week sometime? A weekday? Not Friday, of course.” Her smile is kind, a sort of mystified attempt at understanding in her eyes. Evelyn didn’t keep Shabbat, not until Lionel, not really. Sure she’d go to Bess’s for the Shabbat dinner, and Bess would light the candles, give the blessing, and they’d eat _khallah_ , the pretty braided loaves, but that was really the extent. Tradition, rather than devotion. Lionel’s all about devotion, and somehow she’s not sure she’ll miss it - and then she has to think, where did that come from? Lionel isn’t _going_ anywhere, is he? This is her life now. Not homely dinners at the Levins’, not ruffling Sandy’s hair and teasing Alvin when he gets full of himself. Now it’s dinner with Lionel and lunch with Anne and that’s it, for her. The big empty house and her glass full of scotch. 

“I’m sorry, I-” Evelyn stands up, and Anne takes her cue. “I’m rather busy next week. I’ll- do I have your telephone number?” 

Anne makes a show of writing it down for her, and Evelyn makes a show of pressing it into her contact book (hers, not Lionel’s. Lionel already has Anne’s telephone number. But she and Lionel are separate entities, now. Somehow.). Both of them are hoping she’ll use it but she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know. Anne looks over her shoulder at her, on her way back down the drive towards the chauffeur-driven car. Anne looks over her shoulder and Evelyn can’t take it, that honest stare. That lonely stare. Mrs Lindbergh wasn’t ever honest or lonely; Anne Morrow is.

\--

One day she goes to visit her mother’s grave. It’s been a long time, a time full of things her mother couldn’t ever have imagined because this is America, not Russia. This is the Land of the Free. Still, Evelyn goes to her grave and stares at it for a very long time. The rabbi’s words - _and we are indeed now Americans_ \- and his pointed stare at the pair of them, her and Lionel, ring in her ears. _American._ What does that even mean? She heard everything Lionel said but she never listened, not really. She sensed Herman’s anger and she got angry herself; she let Lionel sweep her along because he’s a _rabbi_ , he can’t support an anti-Semite, what kind of madness is that-

“I’m sorry,” are her first words to Dora Finkel’s grave. It’s somehow easier to speak to a headstone than to the real person, because towards the end her mother didn’t know her, thought of her as Bess or a stranger, flinched away from her gentle hands. But she was still her mother; she was still the woman who brought the Finkels from Russia to Newark, the woman who went from Russian shtetl to goyishe neighborhood and never complained, not once.

“I learned so much from you,” Evelyn says. “But I should have learned more. I miss you,” she says.

She says, “I miss Bess.” 

She says, “Why did you never tell me it was this hard?

She says, “Why did you let me do this?”

And by then she’s crying, crying in open view, something she hasn’t done since the day she begged Bess to help her and Bess threw her out. Great heaving sobs choke her throat and she presses a shaking hand to her mouth, anything to stop the tears. Because her mother didn’t _let_ her do anything; Evelyn did what she wanted as always. Ma just approved of it this time. 

She’s crying so hard, silently, that she doesn’t even realise there’s someone next to her until they take her arm and she looks up with a jolt. It’s Herman. It’s Herman and she _flinches_ -

“Hey,” he says, calming, raising his hands like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Ev.”

Her heart jumps in her throat and hastily she brushes away her tears. She doesn’t know what she thinks he’ll do; but she knows he has a hot temper. She knows he’ll be more hateful than Bess; but then again, nothing can be worse than Bess. Than the naked contempt in her eyes. Herman never liked her all that much. Bess's loss of faith is a different story.

“Hey,” he says again. “You- how are things?”

It’s forced. God, it’s forced. She knows that. But still she finds herself desperate, eager to please. Maybe if- he might- Bess could- “Not all that good,” she manages, with a shrug, then regrets the shrug. Where does she go from here? She can’t be honest, searching for pity. She can’t lie, acting aloof. “Bess-“

Something in his face, shadowed by his hat, shutters off. He shakes his head. “Sorry, Ev. Best not to ask.”

She cringes. Another tear escapes her eye and she hates it, hates this feeling. Hates crying in front of a man she’d rather hate. “And Sandy? Philip?”

He looks on the brink of responding but then he looks past her, over her shoulder. “You should go.”

She begins to turn to look but his hand lands on her shoulder and stops her. She stiffens.

“You should go,” he repeats, “before Bess finds you here.”

The words hit her like a blow to the chest and another sob crawls up her throat. She aches, she burns to look, but Herman’s hand on her shoulder is unforgiving. She was stupid, she thinks, not to realise that Bess would be here with him. Why else would Herman come? Why else-

“Go,” he says again. Her face twists, and she walks away.

—

Late one night Bess is still awake, lying on her side staring at the wall as Herman snores behind her. It’s been weeks now. It’s been weeks now and she’s heard nothing, not a single thing. It’s like Evelyn has vanished off the face of the earth. She hasn’t even been in the papers (not that Bess has been checking). The rabbi isn’t either. Lindbergh is only mentioned every so often, Wheeler even less, so it’s like-

It’s like it never even happened.

But Evelyn doesn’t call, and that is proof in itself. 

She’s crying before she can stop herself and she _hates_ that, she hates that she can’t stop herself, and that just makes her cry harder. She presses a hand to her mouth in an effort to muffle the sound; it doesn’t really work. She’s so caught up in this flood of grief - she doesn’t even know it comes from, or what she’s grieving - that she misses the way Herman’s snoring goes silent. She doesn’t notice, not until his hand is on her shoulder and then she rolls to face him and cries into his chest.

He lets her cry. She weeps without stopping for at least ten minutes, and by then he’s rubbing circles on her back and her eyes feel hot and swollen. “What is it, huh?” he asks, gently, when she’s cried herself out.

She swallows the lump in her throat and takes a long time to respond. “Am I an awful person?” she whispers, and he goes tense.

“What? No. Bess-” His tone is forceful. “Don’t you ever think that. Not ever. You’re the best person I know.”

“But I threw away my sister,” she says, voice small, not daring to look at him. “Family is- is everything, and I threw it away-”

“She’s the one who threw it away, Bess. Not you. She betrayed you - us - and you had every right to do what you did.”

Her hand snakes down to find his and she laces their fingers together. “Y’know, in school, she was the prettiest. Out of all the girls. Everyone said so. They were still cruel to her, sure, but- they didn’t ignore her, like they ignored me. The boys liked her, and she liked the attention, and they took advantage of that.” 

She remembers this well. She remembers coming home, two hours before Evelyn would come home with her hair mussed, a hazy smile on her face, a distasteful bruise on her neck that Bess didn’t even recognise at the time. Evelyn is six years older than her: Evelyn was a high school senior when Bess was still in middle school. Evelyn was having sex in the backseat of the boys’ cars because the goyishe girls wouldn’t, they were prudes, and Evelyn just wanted to be _loved_ even then, so much that she wouldn’t get angry when they called her a _Yid slut_ and would just get upset, instead, and would cry prettily into her pillow while Bess watched her across the room, trying to do her group project all by herself because none of her classmates would talk to her.

“She was terrified of being abandoned. And it happened all the time- all the boys- they’d use her up and then they’d just- discard her. Like she was worthless. But she never gave up. She always thought that- that this was the one. This boy won’t abandon her. But he always did. And then mom died, and now I- I’m the one. I’m the one who abandoned her.”

She feels him getting ready to argue, to reason her way out of this. It’s what he’s best at, after all. It’s what he likes best - but then he softens. Maybe he senses she just needs- she needs to get this out. Because that’s what the feeling is, in her chest. Guilt. She feels guilty, and god knows she shouldn’t, because Evelyn is the villain here. Evelyn is the one who should be feeling guilty, but here Bess is, crying into Herman’s chest. 

Bess married Herman two years out of high school, and they moved into a friendly Jewish neighborhood, where everyone knew everyone and they weren’t ignored, not anymore. This was always in the cards for her; it was what she wanted, always. A nice man, a nice house, a neighborhood where people wouldn’t point and stare. Evelyn, six years older, spent the end of Bess's teen years in speakeasies, falling in and out of mostly sexual relationships with goyishe men, often married. She spent the roaring twenties drinking and wearing short skirts, far enough away from their little house in Elizabeth that people stopped thinking to question whether she was Jewish, or just didn’t care; Bess spent the roaring twenties finishing high school and getting married.

Maybe that was it, their problem. That Bess would settle for what she got, while Evelyn always wanted more. Evelyn is a dreamer. Bess is a realist. Evelyn and Herman can be frighteningly similar, it occurs to her suddenly. Bess considers herself the voice of reason in their house, but Evelyn doesn’t have a voice of reason, not anymore.

“I miss her,” she chokes out. “I shouldn’t but- I miss her. And I’m- god, I’m _worried_ about her.”

Herman holds her closer. “She’s doing okay,” he says, like he’s admitting something.

She tenses, and draws away without thinking about it. “You’ve seen her?”

A pause, then: “She was at the graveyard, the day we went to visit your Ma.”

“...And?” She finds herself desperate.

“Well-“ He sighs. “She was pretty upset. And it seemed like- she wanted to see you.”

She feels herself frown. “And you sent her away.”

“Yeah. I did.” 

There’s a moment of wrenching silence. She’s not sure whether to be angry or glad; she settles on glad. “Good.” Her voice is a whisper. “If I see her again, I’ll kill her.” Repeated words, words that don’t mean much of anything anymore. But they do give her comfort.

—

It’s a Tuesday, weeks and weeks after Lindbergh now, and Evelyn walks ten minutes to the bus stop and sits on the bus like she gets it everyday, even though it’s now been years. She crosses her legs and folds her arms over her purse in her lap and tries not to look too anxiously out the window, like they can sense her weakness. They probably can. 

The bus takes her to Elizabeth, to where Jewish neighborhoods give way to goyishe ones and, unrelated, the houses get smaller and smaller. Unknown streets become streets she recognises and it’s strange, coming back here, after all this time. She could have had their driver bring her but it didn’t feel right, not really. It burned even to consider it.

The shop is still the same, the shop owned by the only other Jewish family in the whole of Elizabeth. Quaint green storefront, mannequins in the window. A dressmaker’s. Her mother had always come here for her dresses, Evelyn remembers, back when it was fashionable for them to nearly touch the floor. _Horowitz’s_ is emblazoned in gold on the storefront and she didn’t think anything of it when she was a child but now she stares at it and wonders where they got the courage. Even two months ago she wouldn’t have wondered this. Two months ago they lived in a country in which they were welcome: _Lindbergh’s not an anti-Semite. They wouldn’t dare._

Now, she’s not sure where they live.

The bell rings as she enters, just as it used to, and by the door there’s a gorgeous dress on display, rich forest green with a bateau neckline, and she stops and stares at it for just a moment, but it’s long enough for the proprietor to come out and look for her. (Clearly, they don’t have many customers.)

“Good morning. How can I help?” Her voice is polite, not familiar, but Evelyn recognises it anyway. She tears her eyes from the dress and looks up to see Mrs. Horowitz coming towards her, worn and lined but still the same Mrs. Horowitz, warm eyes and tired face. No recognition, though. She doesn’t recognise Evelyn.

“Mrs. Horowitz, it’s- it’s me.” She doesn’t know why, but she’s nervous. She’s suddenly glad she left her wedding ring at home on the rim of the sink - not that she meant to. Her finger feels curiously light and bare.

There’s a moment of confusion, then Mrs. Horowitz’s dark eyes widen. “Ev? Evelyn Finkel, all grown up?” She’s smiling and Evelyn feels herself wilt with relief. “Come on, let me get a look at you.”

Self-conscious now, Evelyn lets herself be twirled around. Mrs. Horowitz looks impressed when they’re facing each other again and she strokes a reverent hand over Evelyn’s sleeve. “This dress is wonderful, Ev, did you finally find your rich husband?” 

Evelyn’s happiness dies in her throat and her smile grows fixed. The very mention of Lionel makes her feel ill, and she doesn’t know why. He hasn’t _done_ anything, not really. Quite the opposite: now that it’s become clear he’s no longer welcome at synagogue he spends all day in his pyjamas and housecoat, reading novels by Kafka and Nabokov. He’s even stopped caring if she smokes in the house, which she’s started doing concerningly often.

She’s saved from having to answer, because Mrs. Horowitz is a positive fountain of words still and her voice keeps on coming. “And how have you been? How is your Ma?”

Evelyn sighs. “She- uh, she passed about a year ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Mrs. Horowitz places a consoling hand on her arm that she’s not sure she deserves. “And how is darling Bess?”

Another thing that makes her stomach twist. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Mrs. Horowitz seems to notice the conflict in her eyes and the curiosity fades, becomes knowing. 

“Would you like a cup of coffee? I can shut up shop for a bit, it’s not like I’m flooded with business anyway.” 

Gratefully, Evelyn nods, and lets herself be led to the backroom, where Mrs. Horowitz prepares a cafetiere. It’s small, homely. There’s a pile of cookies on the table and suddenly it reminds her of Bess's house, Bess's kitchen. Her chest hurts. 

“Here,” Mrs. Horowitz says, as she pours out a cup of coffee and presses it into Evelyn’s hands. Then, because it seems like she knows what Evelyn needs, she starts talking. Just- talking, about her life. About the new pattern she made for the ‘42 fashions, about her life as a widowed dressmaker and how business is tailing off, about the way she’d scared off goyishe thugs with her late husband’s shotgun. About her son Joe, three years older than Evelyn, whom both Mrs. Horowitz and Mrs. Finkel had once hoped she would marry, who’s now-

“-in South Carolina, thanks to Homestead ‘42. He and Etta are fine, thank gosh, but it was a scary time…”

Evelyn feels sick. _It wasn’t meant to be like this!_ she wants to scream. _It was meant to make our lives better!_

But they don’t see it like that. They see it as disintegrating, rather than spreading. They see it as- as something _bad_ -

“Evelyn? Are you alright, dear? You’ve gone white as a sheet.” 

Mrs. Horowitz is sixty-five, kind-hearted, the best dressmaker in Elizabeth, New Jersey, and she has no fucking idea who Evelyn is, what she’s done. She doesn’t know Evelyn was the reason her son came so close to death, the reason Selma Wishnow is dead, the reason the Jewish streets have gaping holes in them filled by goyishe families. She remembers what it was like. She remembers being the only Jew in her year, she remembers what they’d call her when her back was turned, when she’d smoothed down her skirt. She remembers the way her mother would wilt with relief whenever they entered Horowitz’s Dressmaker’s, the only other place they would feel welcome. No synagogue in Elizabeth; no minyan. 

She really thought she would be helping? She really thought she was improving their lives, sending Jewish families off to live like the Finkels did. The realisation makes everything inside her constrict and shrivel up. She might be sick. 

“Have you-” Her voice breaks. “Have you got anything stronger than coffee?”

Mrs. Horowitz blinks, and then stands up. She goes to the cupboard and produces a bottle of- god. Is that _Southern Comfort?_ Evelyn _hates_ Southern Comfort. But Mrs. Horowitz pours out a glass- two- and she drinks it, because it’s there. 

She takes a deep breath. Mrs. Horowitz is watching her across the table, and Evelyn isn’t going to tell her everything. Bess is her sister, and Bess threw her out. Mrs. Horowitz doesn’t have nearly the same expected loyalty to break. But she has to tell her _something._ She has to tell someone _something._ “I- I married someone I shouldn’t have married.”

Mrs. Horowitz pats her hand. “That’s okay. It happens to the best of us.”

It’s that that makes her cry.

\--

Coffee, occasionally whiskey, with Mrs. Horowitz becomes something of a regular thing. They don’t talk much about politics, mainly because Evelyn tenses up the second Lindbergh’s name is mentioned; even more when Wheeler’s name comes up.

(The night they came to arrest Lionel he went quietly enough, that’s true, standing up like he was off to the White House instead of prison and torture and even fucking execution, for all she knew, which is why she stood up and demanded to know where the hell they were taking him.

The agent in charge just laughed at her. “Christ, where do you think? Your husband’s a traitor. Know what that means, mockie bitch?”

“He’s not a traitor. _You’re_ the traitors, arresting him when you should be arresting whoever’s inciting these riots-”

His hand snapped over her face, not hard, but it sent her reeling back and Lionel shouted her name and they were saying “Let’s go,” and then they were _leaving_ with him and there was blood on her lip and then he was gone, and she was struggling to her feet but he was _gone_ and suddenly she realised all at once that they’d be _back_ for her, she knew they would, Lionel wasn’t enough- she’d met with the First Lady too- she knew the truth-

She lost her mind, for a little bit. She’s willing to accept that. What she’s not willing to accept is that Bess saw this, and didn’t let her in anyway. Bess saw that she needed help and did _nothing_ , and Evelyn can’t wrap her head around it. Doesn’t want to. Bess has never been cruel, but it’s easier to think of her as cruel than as _right.)_

One day politics does come up, however, what with the upcoming election, only a few days from now, and how can it not? Mrs. Horowitz has a _vote Roosevelt_ badge pinned permanently to her blouse. “...It’s all to do with the electoral college,” she’s saying. “Thanks to Homestead ‘42 the Jewish vote is spread out. We’ve lost our power as a voting bloc.” 

Evelyn has never had any particularly strong feelings about elections. The last election she wanted Lindbergh to win because Lionel wanted Lindbergh to win, and because if he won then she and Lionel would be that much better off; there would be no war, and instead of awkward meetings at the synagogue it would be elegant meetings at the White House. This time around she’s not invested in either of them, not really. Truman is not a particularly likeable candidate; Roosevelt winning would be a massive _fuck you_ to both Lindbergh and Lionel.

“Can he win? Roosevelt?” she finds herself asking. Lionel has already declared his intention not to vote, but Evelyn can’t bring herself not to. In her twenties she knew the suffragettes, even marched alongside them sometimes, bright girls with loud voices, and their fire is ingrained deep enough in her blood that not voting is physically impossible. But still.

“Maybe,” Mrs. Horowitz says. “We don’t know, that’s the thing. It could go either way and at this point- we really need to enter the war. What they’re doing to the Jews in Germany, in Poland, all over Europe-”

She finds herself agreeing. She finds herself _agreeing_ and when did that happen? When did- “You’re right. Truman won’t do anything.”

Mrs. Horowitz smiles. “No, he won’t. I’m volunteering at the poll booths - will I see you there?”

“No, I’m voting in Newark.” The decision has been made, suddenly. She doesn’t even recall making it, but suddenly it’s been made: on Tuesday she will go to the polls and she will vote for Roosevelt.

\--

(As she’s leaving on Tuesday morning, Lionel considers her over his book. Kafka’s _The Trial_ , this time. “Where are you going?” he asks, finally. She’s wearing a dress with a high neck in funerial black and it feels fitting, somehow. She shouldn’t feel pretty or comfortable at the polls.

“To vote.” She tries not to fiddle with her sleeve. 

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh? Vote for whom?”

She considers lying, but she doesn’t find herself wanting to. “Roosevelt.”

She cringes almost before she sees his shoulders tense. Slowly, he lowers his book. “Roosevelt. You’re voting… for Roosevelt?”

She nods. “Truman isn’t a good candidate. And- Lionel-“ She bites her lip. “Maybe- maybe we were wrong. Maybe this _is_ our war.”

He stares at her. “How long have you thought this?” he asks, and truly she doesn’t know. Not a long time, is her first thought, but then her second thought brings her to how she never really had an opinion, one way or another, and just let Lionel lead her where he wanted because he was _Lionel._ He was a rabbi- the man she was seeing- her fiancé- her _husband_ -

“Maybe this is our war,” she repeats, quietly. 

She leaves him staring sightlessly at a page of his book.)

—

Roosevelt wins. Roosevelt wins despite it all, despite rumored ballot-burning, despite frightened turnout and riots that kick up a storm, and Bess releases a fraught, tense breath as Herman squeezes her hand so tight she loses circulation. They stayed up late to listen to the results, crackling over their radio like they did that night in 1940, that night everything went wrong. Bess's heart is in her throat the whole night. She barely touches the large brandy Herman has poured her, although he knocks back his own. But then she can breathe again, because Roosevelt wins, and Herman stands up and crows.

“He won! He won, Bess, he- we’re in the war! We’re in the goddamn war!”

She smiles at him tiredly, taking a sip of her brandy. “We’re not in the war yet, there’s Congress to go through and…”

“Did he win?” Sandy’s voice is breathless. Philip and Seldon are right behind him, and for once Bess can’t find it in herself to tell them off. It’s a night for the history books, that’s true. They shouldn’t miss it. A night they’ll all remember, the night they took their country back.

(Why does that feel hollow?)

Herman is grinning, though, and his joy is infectious. He opens his arms. “He won.”

Sandy and Philip _run_ at him, shoving at each other and their father in excitement, classic boys, while Seldon holds back. “What does that mean?” he asks, lost, and Bess beckons him over to her chair. 

“It means, Seldon,” she says, ruffling his hair, “that hurting the Jews isn’t legal anymore.” It’s grossly simplified, maybe not even true, at least not until they repeal Homestead ‘42 and disband the OAA for once and for all. But Seldon needs a bit of hope and so does Bess. She wants so badly to wake up one day and for all of this to be over, to have been a bad dream. She wants to wake up without having to worry about the lives of her family from the second she opens her eyes.

When the boys have gone back to bed, she and Herman sit there for a while longer, just breathing into the silence, letting the brandy warm their chests. “This isn’t over,” she says, finally. She looks at him. “You know that, right? It doesn’t end here. Life doesn’t just- go back to normal.”

“I know that.” His voice is quiet. “But- something good happened here today, Bess. You didn’t see it. They were walking off with the ballot boxes, they could’ve been burning them for all I know, and you know they wouldn’t do that for Roosevelt’s sake.” _They might_ , she thinks, but she doesn’t say it. Somehow her husband still has faith in his heroes of democracy. She’s not gonna try and take that away from him - and she doubts she’d succeed, if Lindbergh didn’t succeed. If Wheeler didn’t succeed. “Which means that despite it all, despite _everything_ , people are still fighting for what this country should stand for. People aren’t gonna accept the violence, not anymore. We _won_ , Bess, and sure there’s a long way to go but we deserve to celebrate this.”

She nods, faintly, on the brink of tears for no discernible reason. He’s aglow with happiness and she wants to be, she longs to be, but she can’t forget that this isn’t over, that anti-Semitism hasn’t been uprooted and destroyed overnight. 

They have triumphant sex that night but when she’s finished and the thoughts come rushing in, she has to turn over and she feels all that tension flooding her muscles again. Her instincts are screaming at her - _it’s not over_ \- though that’s the thing she wants most in the world.

\--

Two days later Bess is halfway through her shift at the department store, folding up a silk blouse for a smiling customer, when the floor drops out from beneath her. The customer, an elegant woman in her fifties, is looking beyond her at a dress on a mannequin. “That’s very pretty,” she says. “Just like Horowitz’s over in Elizabeth do- or did.”

Bess tenses. She hasn’t seen or even thought about Horowitz’s since she was fourteen, following her mother on her shopping errands. Mrs. Horowitz had always had a strange connection to Evelyn, she remembers, despite Evelyn’s errant ways. Bess was always too young and too shy to make friends with adults. “Did?” she risks asking.

“Oh, didn’t you hear? It’s awful, really. I usually get my dresses over there. She was volunteering at the polls, I heard, and after Roosevelt won someone followed her home and- well. She’s in hospital, and the store’s a ruin.”

Her stomach drops out. She’d told Herman it wasn’t over and now-

She hates being proved right.

When the customer has paid, Bess tells her supervisor she’s taking her break and then she rushes downstairs to the phone, and hopes against hope that Herman hasn’t left yet. He has a day off today, looking for another job, one in an office again now that Homestead ‘42 is on the way out. He picks up on the third ring. 

“Herman, I need you to-” She takes a deep breath to calm herself down. This feels like Seldon all over again, but she doesn’t know why. Seldon was - is - their responsibility. Mrs. Horowitz is not. “I need you to drive over to Elizabeth and go to Horowitz’s Dressmaker’s. I- um, I don’t know the street but it should be in the phone book-”

“What? Why?” 

She closes her eyes. “She was attacked, after the vote. She- she used to make dresses for my mother.”

There’s a moment of silence, then “Yeah. I’ll go.”

\--

Roosevelt wins. Roosevelt wins and Evelyn isn’t sure whether to breathe a sigh of relief or not. Lionel just stares at the radio as she lights her third cigarette. 

Two days later she gets the bus over to Elizabeth, and as she’s walking to Horowitz’s Dressmaker’s for the first time she feels afraid. Because the street feels hostile now, like it didn’t before. People are leering at her and she’s suddenly sixteen again, walking home from being called a _Yid slut_ by the boy she thought she loved and everyone is tall and threatening, goyishe and loud about it. She rounds the corner, her pace increasing with every step, and then her heart jumps into her throat. 

There’s a swastika thick and dark on the wall of Horowitz’s. There’s a swastika and the storefront window is broken and it’s all burnt out inside, blackened and ruined, and she’s half expecting to see Mrs. Horowitz’s burnt corpse strung up as a warning because it’s _just_ like those photos, the ones of Kentucky and Alabama and South Carolina. Evelyn stares with something crawling up her throat, stares until she can’t take it anymore and her legs buckle and she has to brace herself against the wall as she throws up her breakfast. 

People are staring but she can’t move. Roosevelt _won-_ he _won-_ This isn’t right- God, what if she’s- what if she’s dead. What if Mrs. Horowitz, the last piece of her childhood she’s got left, is dead, dead at the hands of- of-

A hand lands on her arm and she whips around with a cry, arms raised against an attacker, only for Herman to take her by the shoulders and hold her there firmly. “Evelyn. Evelyn, look at me.”

She shudders. This is all _wrong_ , this can’t happen- this shouldn’t happen-

“ _Evelyn_. What the hell are you doing here? C’mon, you shouldn’t- you shouldn’t be here.” He steers her down the street, away from Mrs. Horowitz’s, and into his car. “Just- take a second to breathe, okay? What are you doing here?”

“Mrs. Horowitz,” she says. “She- we’re _friends-_ ”

The suspicious surprise in his eyes shouldn’t shock her as much as it does. What did he think, that she’d renounced it all? Blotted out her past, her identity, the moment she slipped Lionel’s wife’s ring on her finger? It’s not so easy as that. He sighs, and flexes his hand on the steering wheel. There’s a small bottle of Bess’s favorite hand cream, half empty, lying forgotten in the footwell. Evelyn’s throat tightens at the sight. 

“Look, I talked to a couple bystanders and it sounds like she got taken over to University Hospital. She’s alive, okay? She’s in bad shape but she’s alive.”

The first emotion that hits is relief. The second is terror - because how in the hell can Evelyn face her now? How can Evelyn go to her and pretend this is normal, pretend like this isn’t because of Lindbergh, what he allowed to happen, what Lionel went along with, what _she_ went along with…

Herman starts to drive, and she can’t exactly stop him. She sits there in silence, hands twisted in her lap, trying not to scream. And then they’re pulling up at the hospital and he’s tugging her inside, speaking in friendly but insistent tones to the woman at the front desk, and outside Mrs. Horowitz’s room she has the presence of mind to tell him _her son’s called Joe, tell the nurse you’re her son_ , and it’s only then that they’re allowed anywhere near her.

And then Evelyn hesitates, because she’s not doing this. She can’t do this. This- this may as well be _her fault._ She could have- the very least she could have done would have been discouraging Mrs. Horowitz, telling her not to volunteer, let someone else do it, someone who isn’t carrying a massive target on their back simply by virtue of their last name. Maybe then-

“What are you waiting for?” and Herman’s voice is hard. “Go on.”

“I can’t.” 

He stares at her, more than a little furiously. This time she doesn’t flinch, she just looks up at him, resigned to her own cowardice. “Why not?” he hisses out, as if through gritted teeth.

“It’s my fault,” she chokes out, and looks at the floor - so she doesn’t see him reaching out and tugging her chin up so she has to face him again. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it is. And that’s why you’re gonna go in there and you’re gonna be the best goddamned friend that woman’s ever had. ‘Cause it doesn’t look like she’s got anyone else.”

She could just walk out of here. She doesn’t think Herman would hurt her. He wouldn’t hit a woman. He’d just watch her go, disappointed and angry but not surprised, and he’d call Bess and it would be Bess sitting by Mrs. Horowitz’s bedside, and Evelyn would be alone in her cold, massive house where Lionel moves about shiftlessly like a ghost and she has nothing to do, nothing. 

And her last chance would turn to dust in her hands.

She takes a deep breath, and does what she’s told.

\--

It’s nearly July when Bess sees Evelyn again. It’s been months and months and even though she feels a flicker of _something_ every Shabbat when Evelyn’s place at the table is taken by Seldon instead, and more than a flicker when he’s sent to live with a cousin in England and Evelyn’s place remains empty, she doesn’t think about it too much. She lights candles and breaks bread with her family, her real family, her only family, and convinces herself that this is how it should be. Herman working in an office again, wearing those suits that make him look so handsome, his hands soft again when he touches her skin. Sandy growing tall and strong, Philip smiling and collecting stamps again. 

America enters the war.

She keeps waiting for Herman to be called up, waiting and dreading, but he never does. Lucky, she guesses, though he doesn’t see it that way. Roosevelt bans voluntary enlistment at the beginning of his presidency and Herman grinds his jaw at the radio, but she’s not convinced he would have done it. She would have stopped him from doing it. _You are not leaving us_ , she imagines herself saying. _After everything, you are not leaving your wife and your sons alone in this country._

 _Our country_ , he would say back. 

She’s still not sure.

And then it’s June, and she’s picking out a blouse to interview as a secretary in a nice office uptown and suddenly she misses Evelyn so hard it aches. The blouse she’s chosen doesn’t sit right on her as she looks at herself in the mirror and because it looks like something Evelyn would wear for a moment she thinks perhaps it _is_ hers, and she runs her fingers over the silky fabric like that will bring her sister back to her. But it isn’t Evelyn’s, of course it isn’t, how could it be? 

In the end she settles on something duller, less revealing. Her hand hovers over her box of makeup but she doesn’t touch either of the bright lipsticks Evelyn gave her for two different birthdays, despite how pretty she felt the few times she’s worn them. She’s not bold enough for that. Evelyn was always the pretty one. Bess is solid, dependable. Not pretty.

(She’s always thought of that as a good thing, but sometimes - just sometimes - she feels envious. Evelyn’s long dark hair, coy smile. Bess has only ever looked nervous in her attempts to flirt.)

School has finished for the summer, so she passes Sandy sitting with a girl on someone’s porch on her way to the bus stop. “Mom,” he calls. She raises an eyebrow at him. The girl he’s with is pretty, she notes. “You look nice.”

She gives a half-laugh. “Thank you, Sandy.” Her look is stern. “Keep an eye on your brother, okay? I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

He nods and turns back to the girl, whose name Bess can’t quite recall but whose face she recognises. She’s Jewish and she lives on this street, definitely, and it fills Bess with warmth that she’s been able to give this to her children, this thing that she and Evelyn never had. 

Her interview goes well. At the end her prospective employer stands up and shakes her hand, and says “You’ve got the job,” and she flushes with satisfaction. The pay and the benefits are a step up from the department store, and it will go some way towards smoothing over the dent that the last year has left in their finances. As she leaves she’s still smiling, and she holds the smile as she walks right past the bus stop; she can walk to the next one, she decides, and enjoy the sunny warmth of the afternoon.

It’s lucky she’s in a good mood. _Evelyn_ is lucky. Bess passes the local synagogue on her way and they’re having some sort of bake sale, with tables set out in the street and smiling congregants milling around with donation buckets. A charity drive, she thinks, and slows her pace. The tables are laden with rugelach and babka. Philip loves babka. She should buy some, bring some back for him. 

She’s handing over her money before she notices who she’s giving it to, and then her heart drops down to her toes. 

Evelyn looks different. Better. Her hair is pinned up but it’s messy, not bound tight like it was when things were bad. Her blouse is white and faintly sheer, and is that flour dusted on her collar? Her eyes widen, startled, _scared_ , and Bess looks at her like a deer in headlights.

“Bess,” Evelyn ventures, and her voice is so soft. Tentative, like Bess might shout at her. Maybe she will.

“Ev,” and her voice is gentler than it should be. It’s gentle and suddenly all she wants to do is pull Evelyn into her arms and never let go, never. 

Evelyn is still staring at her. Bess can’t take it, the staring. She folds over the top of her brown paper bag full of babka and starts to walk away, before a hand lands on her arm.

“Bess, _please._ ” It’s plaintive but not desperate, not hoarse, not this time. Not quite so insane. “Can we- can we just talk?”

Without giving herself the time to think, Bess nods. Now that she’s seen her she won’t be able to take this limbo, she knows. Either she has to cut Evelyn off for good or-

Well, the _or_ doesn’t bear thinking about. Not yet. It’s unthinkable. And yet…

Evelyn brings her to the back office of the synagogue. It’s neat, tidy, and Bess’s curious gaze alights on a picture hung on the wall, many faces all lined up together. _Friends of Beth Israel, March ‘43_ , reads the caption. It doesn’t take her long to pick out Evelyn’s face, hollower than it used to be but _happy._

Evelyn isn’t wearing her wedding ring. That’s the second thing Bess notices. The first is the way her hands flutter over each other - because she’s nervous, really nervous. She’s never been nervous because of Bess before. It’s a strange feeling.

“So- um- how have you been?” Evelyn’s voice is stilted, too cheery.

“Good. We’ve been- good.” Bess doesn’t know how to do this anymore. The sibling thing. How does she- how does she express how scared she is, that all this might still be torn away? How does she express how _angry_ she is yet how glad she is that they met again?

“Good. I’m glad, Bess, really I am. I know you think I don’t care-” 

“Don’t.” Her voice is sharp.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t try me for sympathy. You will not get any.” The anger is still there, she realises. Bubbling and brimming at the surface. It hasn’t been long enough. 

Evelyn just looks at her. Her big eyes are sad. “I- I’m not. I’m actually-” She takes a breath and leans against the desk. There’s flour on her cheek, too, Bess notices. She hasn’t looked this un-put-together in years. “I left Lionel.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I- I lived in a boarding house in Bayonne for a little bit, until the divorce was- was settled. Then I had the money to get an apartment, and…”

“And the synagogue?” Bess’s voice is barely a whisper. She can’t quite believe it. Bengelsdorf was a rabbi, sure, but he was _Bengelsdorf._ If her sister hasn’t changed then her presence here is really fucking strange.

“It was Mrs. Horowitz, funnily enough.” Evelyn has a faint smile on her face, clearly remembering, her eyes half-closed. “I told her. About everything. And what she said- she just said, ‘Why don’t you go on down to the Beth Israel synagogue in Newark?’, and I did.”

Bess looks at her. She doesn’t look proud, not like she used to. Her fingers look slightly yellowed from nicotine, but her smile is bright, _real._ Real and not wrong, not like before. _She divorced Lionel._ That has to mean something, right?

“I’m happy here, Bess.” Her voice is earnest, pleading. Like with Angelo and their mother, only Angelo’s long gone and their mother is dead. “I’m finally doing something good.”

“I-” Bess searches for a response, and finds none. She doesn’t have it in her to be angry, not anymore. “I’m glad.” Her voice is hoarse.

Evelyn’s eyes go all watery and seeing her cry has always made Bess cry, always, so they start crying together and then they’re in each other’s arms, fitting together just like they used to, Bess’s hand tracing over the fine, smooth silk of Evelyn’s blouse. “I’m sorry,” Evelyn chokes out into her shoulder. “I’m sorry for everything.”

Bess goes rigid but she doesn’t let go. A ‘sorry’ isn’t enough, not nearly, not ever, but this-

This might be a start.

**Author's Note:**

> pls let me know your thoughts <3


End file.
